


Stag

by orphan_account



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (Intentional) Cannibalism, (Unintentional?) Cannibalism (but I mean it's Hannibal man. What do you expect?), Alternate Universe - 1920s, Brothels, F/F, F/M, M/M, Murder Family, Prohibition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-17 01:55:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1369630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The time was 2:00 am, and the year was 1926. The stars were barely visible against the harsh, artificial glow of the city, but if they had been they would’ve been dim and flickering like lights on a Christmas tree—all but spent up. That’s what the year felt like at least, spent up. That’s how Will Graham felt. Spent up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stag

**Author's Note:**

> // Hellohello!! This is my first fic in a reeeeeally long time, and I plan on running it for 20+ chapters! In case you didn't check the tags, Stag takes place in the 1920s in New York at a "oriental-themed" brothel called "The Red Dragon". A quick guide for some of the phrases in the dialogue:  
> -"Balled up": confused  
> -"Ossified/Edge": drunk  
> -"Daddy": a young woman's (rich) boyfriend  
> -"Dapper": a flapper's father

There was a certain nook in the Red Light district that smelled slightly less like fish and cheap red wine, and more like shoe polish and opium. New York’s richest sinners congregated here; bathing in the glow of their lustful reveries, petitioning their prayers for the faithless in a church between dirty sheets. The prostitutes here commanded more power than any of the whitewashed, balding congressmen up on Capitol Hill—in fact on numerous occasions politicians on business trips wound up open-legged and penniless after long nights drinking at the brothels.

The time was 2:00 am, and the year was 1926. The stars were barely visible against the harsh, artificial glow of the city, but if they had been they would’ve been dim and flickering like lights on a Christmas tree—all but spent up. That’s what the year felt like at least, spent up. That’s how Will Graham felt. Spent up.

Tan forearms were pressed against the cool wooden balcony as Will watched the bustling traffic below as men and women alike filtered drunkenly through the cramped strip of cathouses. It was Friday—July—and busier than it’d been in a while. The summer months were always the busiest, but also the most rancid. Incense burned in every corner of the room, overwhelming fumes that stunk almost as bad as the harbor downstairs—but the boss said it added to the ambiance. Crawford didn’t say anything about the bathtub gin chilling in the ice-bucket on Will’s bedside table though, so he could forgive the incense for the moment.

Pushing off of the railing, he rummaged through the top drawer, fingers curling quickly around the familiar cardboard box. He let out a sigh of halfhearted relief—as if there were a chance they wouldn’t have been there. Drawing a cigarette between his lips, Will tipped the picture frame on his desk face down. He procured a box of matches from the half-opened drawer next, struck a match against the side of the matchbox, gazed briefly at the small crackling flame. There was a knock on the door, soft and timid. Will lit the cigarette and took a long, steady drag before flicking the match off the open balcony.

“The bank’s closed, Abigail.”

The door opened with a click, a strong earthy odor flooding the shady bedroom. Abigail tossed her sequined heels on his bed, shaking hands raking through her choppy, bob of chocolate hair, painted lips pulled in a tight line.

“I didn’t know you got off early, Bambi.” Will tried again gently, leaning forward.

“Dad was callin’.” She replied quietly, sitting herself neatly at the foot of his bed. The breeze made her hair dance the waltz around her wet cheeks—painting a portrait that was too intimate, too personal to be put on show.

“Oh.” 

Abigail’s hands were folded in her lap, shoulders slumped, ankles crossed. She let out a muffled sniffle, thin lines of black running down a porcelain canvas of skin. Will carefully set the smoke down on the ash tray and drew the velvety curtains closed as if by doing so he was hiding the girl from the scrutiny of those tired stars. Abigail Hobbs was a runaway—the product of a family of substance abusers and liars—halfway to 19 and still suffering from unfriendly visitors who plagued her while she slept. Mr. Hobbs had a temper that was only accentuated by his inebriation, and Abigail had the scars on her ivory skin to prove it. Abigail had never talked much about Mrs. Hobbs, though from what he’d heard he imagined she didn’t have the strength or courage to stand up for herself, let alone her daughter. 

Garrett Jacob Hobbs made Will Graham feel dangerous. Just thinking about Abigail’s father made his blood boil like the searing flames of judgment day in his veins. It was men like Mr. Hobbs that allowed Will to sympathize with murderers. Stringing Hobbs up in the dead of night was a tantalizingly alluring concept—one he’d mulled over quite a few times. If it was in the name of justice for Abigail…he’d accept the forbidden fruit from the serpent before it was even offered to him. Will was pulled away from his morbid fantasies by Abigail’s hand on his sleeve, urging him to sit beside her on the bed. His expression softened, eyes like pools of stormy cobalt fixated on the crown of her head as she leaned tentatively against his shoulder. Slowly, he inched his arm around her shoulders, giving her arm a reassuring squeeze. 

“I feel all balled up. Like he’s waiting there, at the door. Waiting for me.” She whispered hoarsely into his sleeve, thin fingers tightening their grip around the bunched up fabric of his embroidered silk robe. 

“He said he’d be comin’ soon if I didn’t come back home—keeps on saying he never wanted to be a Dapper. He…he’s on the edge, totally ossified—hell, I could smell it!”   
She let out a frustrated groan, rubbing vigorously at her eyes with the back of her hand, only spreading the running makeup in big blotches around her eyes like a raccoon. Will’s stomach was tight, though he somewhat feigned relaxed-concern as he gently grazed his thumb over her eyelids, more efficient in his attempt than she’d been in trying to wash her face. 

“That son of a bitch won’t come near you, Abigail, you hear me? No way in hell. Not over my cold, dead body. Not without going through me, first.” He spat each venom soaked word with perfect annunciation, withdrawing his fingers from her face hesitantly only to ball them up in his lap.   
Blank, pale eyes were adverted towards the curtains, swaying lazily in the evening breeze. 

“Know what the scariest part is?” her voice was softer than January snow on hard concrete, light, delicate, fragile.

“What?”

“I don’t know if I hate him—don’t think I can.”

“Abigail…how could you possibly—“, Will began to protest before he was interrupted by a persistent knocking on the door. 

“Stag! Your shift’s in five—get a move on!” A distorted voice called from the other side of the door, almost overpowered by the background noise surging from up the stairwell. 

Abigail sighed, pushing away from him and pulling the corner of the curtain back—staring for the sake of staring, punctuating the sentence of their previous conversation with a firm period. Will rubbed at his jaw, watching her from behind for a moment before finally loosening the biased noose from around his neck and turning away. 

“Want to sleep up here tonight?”

“Did Mr. Crawford say I could?”

“I don’t give a damn what Crawford says. You know that.”

Abigail frowned, arms crossed over her uniform—a short, satin, faux-oriental qipao—peering over her shoulder through short sheets of hazel locks.  
“You gave a damn when he said you couldn’t keep Winston.”

She was right, to some extent. He’d had Winston for years—before everything had turned to shit and Will got caught up in the underworld. Jack had told him off for it—said a cathouse wasn’t any place for an old mutt. If Will hadn’t signed the contract already he would’ve walked out on Crawford right there and then.   
But he hadn’t, and now he was the old mutt. Jack Crawford’s mutt.

“You’re not a dog.” Will replied after a minute, briefly registering he was about to be late for his shift. 

“Neither are you.” Abigail shot back, facing him directly with a stubborn scowl.

“Maybe you’re right, but until I’m forced to accept it I’m just a sorry, dog-less excuse for a surrogate who’s about to be late for an appointment with the richest man on the East Coast. Get some sleep, Bambi. I’ve got some business to take care of downstairs.” Will laughed raspy-voiced in surrender.

Abigail relaxed, shoulders slumping slightly without the presence of tension there to hold her suspended in her previously grumpy demeanor. “Awright, fine. Scram already.” she giggled, freckled cheeks rosy in amusement. “Mind if I borrow a nightie?” 

“Yeah, sure.” Will’s lips pulled into a lopsided smile and he ruffled her hair fondly. She stuck her tongue out at him, 

“Hurry up Stag—“, the girl deadpanned, “don’t wanna keep your Daddy waiting.”

She had a smart mouth, and though perhaps the big man didn’t appreciate it, it was quite possibly one of her most endearing qualities. Or at least Will felt so. Abigail beamed up at him fondly, opened her mouth to say something and then closed it as if deciding against it, the words caught in her throat, burning like a hot coal. When she opened her mouth again her words were obscured by a smokescreen of insecurity and Will felt a pang of concern knitting itself a thick blanket of doubt in his guts.

“Night pops.”

“Night Bambi.”

Will paused for a moment after leaving his room, waiting. He could hear the sound of the closet door opening then closing, thin fabric hitting the floor, thicker fabric being pulled over lithe limbs. He’d fight that battle later, when he had the time to. Slipping into the bathroom he gave himself a quick once-over, tying the shimmering sash that held his gaudy “mandarin” robe closed tighter and ran a hand through his dark curls. He didn’t look bad for a burnt-out insomniac.

With measured steps he descended the stairwell, bare toes curling against the cold cement, squinting as the light transitioned from pitch to overwhelming luminescence. As he entered the bright parlor he felt his person-mask perch on the bridge of his nose, an air of false confidence draped over him like a veil. It was tearing.

Will had never really noticed how thin the walls between his two separate existences were—like wading pools, the ocean’s current spilling over them, overlapping them. Those pools hadn’t held clean water for quite some time, clear water muddied and polluted with weeds.

“GRAHAM! You have ten seconds to tell me where the hell you’ve been slinkin’ around before I dock your pay for the next six months.” A booming roar exploded from the deafening swarm of the parlor ahead. 

Will flinched, straining his eyes to focus on the imposing form of the one man he didn’t want to have a run in with tonight. Jack Crawford stood at an imposing 6’0 that looked more like a 6’5 on a good day. It wasn’t a good day. Silhouetted by the massive neon sign behind him, even against scarlet letters that read “Red Dragon” every feature of his face screamed livid red. Eyes adverted, Will wrung his wrists nervously, shifting from foot to foot. 

“Busy—I was…busy.” He said quietly. 

“S’that so? Well you know who else’s real busy? Me. And I don’t got time to be chasin’ your slimy ass around even if you are our top earner. Is that understood?” Crawford had a stern, commanding voice like the clackclackclack of a steam engine with no breaks chugging down the tracks. 

Will nodded slowly, giving a quiet “yessir” in response. Crawford’s thick, tattooed arms rested over his barrel chest. Will stared at him for a moment, eyes fixated on the winding, snakelike creature inked onto Crawford’s tan forearm. 

“How’s your lady, Jack?” he asked, words formulating of their own accord on the back of his tongue.

“She’s dandy. Save your parlor tricks for the guy who actually pays for ‘em.” The burly man said dismissively, waving him off with a frown that seemed to falter. Will’s eyes flickered with interest for a moment before he retreated—away from the heavy stare that weighed down his back—and set off for quite possibly the only man of any real interest in the whole city. 

The incense was thicker—noxious practically in the winding hallways the broke off into separate client rooms. One particular room, a door with a false gold plaque mounted proudly on it, emanated more than just the foul scent of sandalwood. From the crack beneath the door, a rich, woody aroma floated in wafts and overpowered even the perfume.   
Will strode into the dim bedroom with casual confidence, eyes immediately latched onto the well-dressed man sitting like a divine ruler on the moth-eaten sofa.

“Hello, Doctor Lecter.”


End file.
